Fade in on darkness and unmistakable drama as Badalamenti's High Drama Flute Of I-Already-Played-These-Three-Notes-Last-Week-Not-To-Mention-The-Nineteen-Consecutive-Weeks-Before-That picks up where we left off last week, inside the police station with the dead hobo and the continuity-challenged chess game set up as before. I think. Hey, lighting supervisor? It's called an "on switch." I read about it in Premiere. If I wanted to watch Twin Peaks with this little clarity, I would have gone ahead and gouged my eyes out with a particularly jagged crust of cherry pie somewhere around the first iteration of the words "push the plug." All of which is kind of strange, considering the fact that it should be a lot lighter in there, what with the neon sign and blinking arrow pointing directly at Dead Chess Hobo and reading, "Spot The Pawn-In-The-Game Metaphor." A close-up shot on a swatch of bloody gauze pans back to The Checked Mate (don't mind me, floundering in the corner looking for an appropriate nickname that isn't, well, that one…you just go ahead, I'll catch up with you later), and a hand reaches into the frame and rips said gauze off. Doc Hayward utters his usual "I'm not a doctor, and soon I won't play a whole lot of anything on TV" variation of "Good Lord," as Cooper extracts what appears to be the pawn (geddit? Do ya? Do ya? Do ya?) from between Slobby Fischer's teeth and places it in a plastic bag marked "evidence." Cooper hands the bag to Andy, telling him, "I want this dusted for prints." Harry "Xiu Xiu: Girl Sent Down…On Me" Truman walks in and informs the assemblage, "No one saw a thing. The blackout and the fire drew everyone out of the building." Say, there's a blackout about? Truman asks how long Hey Rook Me Over has been dead, and the good doctor admits that he won't know without a formal autopsy. Cooper gets that process underway: "Doc, if you'll lift up the victim's shirt, I believe you'll find a stab wound one inch beneath the sternum, penetrating upwards, severing the aorta." Doc lifts up Chess-ter Cheetah's shirt, which reads, "I searched for Bobby Fischer and all I got was this stupid highly stylized Abdominal Contusion," beneath which is a stab wound one inch beneath the sternum, penetrating upwards, severing the aorta. Or so I am led to believe by the furtive, how-could-Cooper-know-about-the-stab-wound-one-inch-beneath-the-sternum-penetrating-upwards-severing-the-aorta stares currently ricocheting off the walls of the very, very, very dark room. Truman: "You've seen this before?" Snerk. Great line. I half-expect the camera to zoom all crazily in on Cooper, who would hold the flashlight below his chin and recount a dark-and-stormy-night tale about a man walking alone in the woods who came across a lunatic with hooks for hands and eyes that glinted as bright as the sliver horsemen of the Civil War Memorial Chess Set, and that the first man was found dead in the trunk of his car, and the story goes in the old woods that he was…"Bored to death…by chess!" Which is what I'm being right now. See the intrigue? And you thought chess was the sport of high school dorks and Russian defectors with essentially identical names no self-respecting chess-hating American has ever been able to pronounce correctly or, in truth, has really tried that hard. Well, now you know differently.